


Lucky You

by jarbaje



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, bc guess who shows up just in time, but it doesn't actually happen, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 14:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19855417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarbaje/pseuds/jarbaje
Summary: They'd already robbed you for everything you had, but apparently that wasn't enough and now you're tied up in the middle of a shoddy camp of outlaws. Certain they're going to do all manner of unsavory things to you, but a certain cowboy shows up at just the right moment.





	Lucky You

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr request along the lines of "Arthur rescues female reader from the O'Driscolls and they eventually fall in love." And this ended up being way longer than I thought it would be so here we are.
> 
> I've never written in the 2nd person so hopefully it's not too wonky.

You’re surprised, if only a little. The worst the outlaws have done is rough you up a bit and tie you to a post. You’d expected worse—heard worse had happened to some of the women in town.

They didn’t said why they’d grabbed you. It had started like a typical robbery, hands up give us all your money or we shoot, then one of them was hauling you off your horse, thick arm crushing around your waist, dragging you towards his own mount.

You fight, of course. Get in a few good kicks before they tackle you from behind and hogtie you.

Hours later you’re still sore, suspect a rib might be cracked from when you were slung over the back of a horse like some dead deer. Hurts in a sharp way whenever you breathe or shift against the pole.

The night is deep-dark, the forest close around you. Hadn’t been able to tell where they took you, not being bounced around on the back of a horse. Somewhere unfamiliar and far off the beaten track. Where no one could happen by and save you.

One of the men swears as a glass breaks. They’re all deep in their cups at this point, a few passed out on the ground near the fire, too drunk to even make it to their tents. They hadn’t bothered to feed you and you couldn’t remember the last thing you drank. Your throat is bone-dry and you’ve had a pounding headache since they robbed you.

You watched the whiskey soak into the grass and wanted to crawl over to it, lap it up like some dog just to ease the dryness in your throat. You don’t realize you‘re making any noise until one of the men turns on you.

“Oh, that’s right! Our wee prisoner! Thirsty, woman?”

You swallow. Your throat clicks. You’ve remained silent the entire time you’ve been in camp, saving your strength.

The man glares and stalks towards you. A mostly-empty bottle dangles from two fingers.

“I asked you a question.”

You square your jaw and meet his bloodshot eyes. He has a droopy face and looks old enough to be your father.

You do something very stupid and spit in his face.

He swings the bottle at you without hesitation. Must be too drunk to see straight because he only manages to graze your chin. It still hurts, clicks your teeth together and makes you bite your tongue. But the bottle doesn’t break and you’ve seen the bloody aftermath of enough bar brawls to appreciate that.

The man staggers and falls backwards to uproarious laughter from his companions. He chucks the bottle blindly, snarls, says he’s going to take a piss and staggers into the forest.

He doesn’t come back. The other men don’t notice, but you do. You haven’t had anything to do but observe the woods around you, you know it shouldn’t take so long. You’re pretty sure you hear a thump somewhere among the trees, but it could be just about anything. Forests seem to make an awful lot of odd noises at night.

There’s a man kneeling in front of you, grabbing your bruised chin and turning your face to the side to inspect it. You try to jerk from his grip but it just tightens.

“Well at least he didn’t ruin such a pretty face. Why don’t you give us a smile, love?” His accent isn’t as thick as the other men’s.

You yank your head free and bite his fingers before he has a chance to react. It earns you a hard slap. It leaves some of his blood on your face.

He drops to his knees, cages your thighs and starts yanking at your many-layered skirts. Panic immediately shoots through you and you start to scream, but he’s too fast and already has a cloth ready to shove into your open mouth.

“So you want to play rough, huh girl?”

You scream around the gag. He gets your skirt up to your knee and then there’s a loud crack echoing through the trees and blood spraying from his neck. His body slumps forward, head landing against your stomach and the feeling of hot blood soaking into your clothes makes bile rise in the back of your throat.

There’s a second of silence before the world erupts into chaos.

The remaining men scramble for their guns, shouting as bullets burst through crates and send dirt flying into the air. Two of them fall before they can even get a shot off. The last two run for cover behind the wagon.

You’re furiously trying to get the cooling body off of you. You don’t care how the rope chafes your wrists; you’re pretty sure they started bleeding a while ago but you’ve gone too cold and numb to feel much more than the weight of the body in your lap and the outlaw’s blood soaked clear down to your bloomers.

One of the men stumbles before he reaches the wagon. His gun drops, fires as he dies. The final man is shouting something into the woods. He’s only got a revolver, fires all six shots in quick succession. There’s a cry from the trees. You’re not much the praying type, but you pray the person is still alive.

There’s another crack and the man goes down before he can finish reloading. The silence is too much and you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

You hear footsteps. You yank on the ropes harder.

A man comes into reach of the low firelight. Hard to make out much except he’s tall and broad and wearing a wide-brimmed hat. You try to speak around the gag. It tastes like sweat and feels like it’s never been washed.

The man slings his long-barreled rifle over one shoulder.

“You okay, miss?” He crouches next to you, hauls the dead man off you with an ease that speaks to considerable strength. He moves slow as he reaches for the gag, removes it with care.

You spit to the side, away from him, and gulp in air. Can smell the spilt blood. Now that the firefight’s over, you can hear the panicked sound of horses. Remembering yours, you start to struggle frantically at the ropes.

“Please untie me, please mister please.”

He reaches behind you and with the sound of knife through rope you’re freed from the post. You try to stand, forgetting you’ve been in the same position for hours. You’d have fallen flat on your face if the man hadn’t caught you by the elbows.

“Woah, slow down there.”

You finally get a good look at him. He definitely spends a lot of time outside, from how rough his skin looks. Light stubble interrupted by a scar on his chin. There’s a genuine concern in his eyes as they roam over your face. A bit of a frown pulls at his brows. He looks around the camp for a second before guiding you to sit on a large crate.

“They hurt you at all?” He’s offering you a bottle of something. You take it with shaking hands.

“Not yet.”

A nods at the blood on your cheek. “Sure don’t look it, miss.”

You wipe it off with the back of your hand. You drain the bottle of what turns out to be fine brandy and he takes it from you, gentle as anything. Like you’re some wild horse about to spook.

Your hands drop to your lap. But that’s just about the worst thing, because it reminds you you’re covered in blood, that it’s soaked all the way to your skin, tacky as it starts to dry. Without realizing you’re doing it you start tearing at your clothes, breath frantic.

The man catches your hands. You expect the grip to be hard, rough. But it’s just warm, where his fingertips aren’t covered by his rifleman’s gloves.

“Hey, now. Just gonna make it worse.”

A scoff escapes you. “What’s worse than being covered in blood?”

“Freezing to death, for one thing.”

As the adrenaline fades, you realize just how cold it actually is and you start to shiver violently.

The man puts his gun on the ground, shrugs out of his coat. “Here, put this on.” Helps you into it as it slips from your shaky grasp.

He stands, puts the gun back on his shoulder and whistles, high and short. A leggy white horse trots out of the woods and stops just outside the perimeter of camp.

He turns back to you and offers his hand.

“Got a camp not far from here, you can stay the night. One of the women should have some clothes that fit you.”

You’re too drained to wonder what kind of camp he could mean, if there are multiple women there, so you just let him pull you to your feet.

You stumble. He keeps a hand on your arm to steady you. You take another step but it seems your legs have decided to stop working altogether.

“Mind if I…” he gestures to pick you up. You just nod, can feel exhaustion dragging you into the depths.

He gets you into a bridal carry. The horse is waiting patiently. It’s real pretty, tall, and now that you’re closer you can see it’s got a unique brindle pattern to its coat.

The horse…horse…your horse!

“My horse—mister, I can’t leave him—“ you’re struggling to be put down, but you don’t have much strength for it. You try to spot Georgie, the last thing you have from your family. Your friends liked to make fun of his name, but in your defense you’d only been eight when you named him.

The man is saying something. He’s stopped walking and is looking directly at you.

“Miss? I said which one is he. Was gonna turn them loose before we left.”

“The grey one, the little grey one, please he’s all I got.”

The man loads you onto his horse, in front of the saddle and swings up behind you. “Think I saw him by the wagon.”

He clicks to his horse. You have enough time to admire the smooth gait before frantic whinnying reaches you.

The outlaws had tied old Georgie next to their haggard saddlers. He looks okay. Your saddle is still on him, but you know the bags have been gone through. You don’t care about the money but there was some jewelry and a nice fountain pen in there that you’ll be sad to lose.

“He trained?”

The closeness of the man startles you. He apologizes.

“Georgie’s the best horse I know.”

A laugh rumbles through him. You feel it through your back where you’ve slouched against the man. Ought to keep some distance for propriety but you’re too exhausted to hold yourself up.

The man dismounts and approaches your horse, hands up and placating. Georgie is upset, never been good around guns, but he keeps looking your way so he can’t be too far gone to his terror.

“He likes beets, if you got any.”

“Think I can oblige.” The man reaches into his satchel, comes out with a fat beet. Georgie gobbles it up and allows the man to lead him by the reins.

“Can he keep pace or should I tie a lead?”

You shiver inside the borrowed coat. It’s warm and it smells like campfire and gun oil and that distinct man smell your sister used to tease you for liking so much. “He’ll come when I call.”

The man nods, secures the reins so they won’t come loose. Mounts behind you, gets his arm to either side for the reins.

“You okay?”

You can only nod, head dropped back against his chest. With your horse safe and the solid warm body pressed to you, the last of your strength flees and the world goes black.


End file.
